Navigating A Pre-Dawn Fog

The past few mornings, I've been going to work early to get a few things done before students and others come around.  

That's meant riding in the dark.  Living in an urban area, I don't experience true darkness very often:   The city always flickers with ambient light from street lamps, skyscrapers, bridges and such.  Still, a lot of familiar sights are rendered invisible, especially in a foggy, misty pre-dawn like the one that surrounded me today:

Over the East River at Hell Gate, the world drifts or streams by, or suspends itself in points of reflection on those currents, all of them forms of light.

Sometimes I feel as if I navigate better by following those points and streams than by looking at signs and maps (or GPS devices)!

Scraping The Sky, Or Brushed By Fog

Late yesterday morning and the afternoons were just interludes between rainstorms.  Or so it seemed.  And it rained even harder, from what I can tell, last night.

I crossed the Queens-Randall's Island spur of the Triborough (RFK Memorial) Bridge just before the window closed or the clouds opened, depending on your point of view:

From A Late Night, Into The Mists

Last night, I stayed at work a bit later than I expected.  What that meant was, among other things, encountering less traffic than I usually see.

It also meant dealing with a change in the weather.  In the morning, I rode to work in a drizzle that occasionally turned into rain.  But, by the time night rolled around, a dense fog blanketed the city.

Normally, I can see the towers on the Queens spur of the RFK Memorial Bridge as soon as I make the turn from 132nd Street onto the Randall's Island Connector.  At that point, the entrance to the RFK Bridge lane is about 1 3/4 miles, or about 3 kilometers, away.  

Last night, though, I could not see the towers or cables until they were right in front of me--when I was in the lane.

When I reached the middle of the bridge, over the waters of Hell Gate (which I couldn't see), I looked back at the soccer field on the Randall's Island shore:

and ahead to the Queens side

My apartment is in there, somewhere!

The Curtain

Yesterday, for Mother's Day, I did the things one should do. In other words, I called my mother and all of the other people in my life who are mothers.

I probably could have gone to brunch with some straight women and gay men I know. Really.  Here in New York, there are restaurants and diners and cafes where you see exactly that:  divorced or otherwise single mothers within a decade or two of my age who may or may not have, or have had children, and men who--depending on when they "came out"--might have been married to such women.  Or, perhaps, they never were married, or they are married now to men and have kids.  Whatever the case, they take Mother's Day as seriously as anyone else.

I wouldn't have minded spending a quiet Sunday morning and/or afternoon with any of them.  But a mist sashayed across the higher windows of the taller buildings near my apartment and across the East River in Manhattan. But there was no threat of rain and, even though the sky was mostly overcast, it somehow hinted that the sun would come through.  And the air was pleasantly cool.

So, of course, I hopped on my bike--Arielle, my Mercian Audax,to be exact--and pedaled toward Forest Park, then the Rockaways.  As Woodhaven Boulevard turned to Beach Channel Boulevard, the mist fluttered like a scrim over treetops in front of low brick and shingle houses, and turned to a lazy ripple over the elevated train tracks of Liberty Avenue.  

After riding through Howard Beach, I glided--yes, I was feeling really good--across the bridge to a narrow strip of land that was nearly obliterated during Superstorm Sandy.  On either side of me, the mist hemmed the waves of Jamaica Bay.  Then, after I crossed another bridge into the Rockaways, I rode along the ocean.   The sun peeked out and gave the illusion of dissipating the clouds and fog.  Instead, the mist draped itself over houses and trees and the Atlantic Beach bridge, all just ahead of me.

That drape would not turn itself into a curtain of clouds or a shroud of rain.  Instead, it hung in the air--always about fifteen minutes ahead of me, it seemed--all the way to Point Lookout.

Then I rode with the mist behind me--and a veil of swirled clouds, again with no hint of rain, ahead of me all the way to the bridge from the Rockaways to Beach Channel.  On that strip of land almost lost to Sandy, the clouds broke.  I looked behind me:  The mist dissipated.  And sunlight filled the streets lined with patches of lawns and gardens that drank what fizzled and hissed from sprinklers.

Tonight, St. Nick Might Have Another Chance To Use Rudolph As A "Blinky"

I am a heartless b***h.  Una puta.  Une putaine.

At least, some of my students are saying such things about me.  I can understand: After all, they just got their grades. 

But animal-rights activists might also be saying such things about me after what I said about Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.  Actually, they should direct their ire toward that guy with a white beard in the red costume.  After all, he's the one using a poor, innocent rangifer tarandus  as a Planet Bike Superflash--and further endangering him by putting him at the front instead of the rear, where he belongs.

Well, Ain't, I mean Saint, Nick might get a chance to perpetuate his misdeed tonight:

Even if he imposes unfair burdens on his beasts, I don't want him to crash into the Empire State Building--which, believe it or not, is in that fog, somewhere behind the "cross" on the RFK Bridge.
 

Imprisoned In The Mist

I must say, I am really enjoying my morning commutes, now that I go through Randall's Island.  Even the knowledge of what lies beyond does not dampen (pardon the pun) my mood.

In this case, beyond that flock of geese--who are free to go wherever they like--and the fog are the most un-free people in this city.  Yes, Rikers Island is shrouded in that scrim of mist!

Well, almost:  It's hard not to feel down--no, let's say it, angry--when thinking about that place now, during Black History Month.  Instead of slave ships pulling into the harbor (Slavery was legal in New York until 1827.), black people--mostly young and male--are locked up on an island.

I channeled some of that anger into my pedals. And, I assure you, it goes into other kinds of activity!

A View During My Commute

One morning last week, fog hung low across the skyline.

To my eyes, it made the scaffolding on the building in the distance stand out all the more.  I wonder whether there is a purpose in that color scheme.  Or did the contractors just use whatever happened to be available to them?

I almost want the building to look like that when it's finished.  Somehow, it would fit in the industrial area surrounding it. 

Steam And Heat

For the past five months, gyms have been closed here in New York.  That means lots of people can use, not only treadmills and exercise bikes, but also saunas and steam rooms.

During the past few days, though, it's been steamier than A Wish Upon Jasmine. (Picking on Fifty Shades of Gray is way too easy!) I mean, it's literally been steamy.  

This is what I saw from the shorline of Greenwich, Connecticut, where I rode the other day.

And this is what I saw from Point Lookout, on the South Shore of Long Island, where I rode yesterday.  That same mist filled the horizon along the Rockaways.

It was odd to see such heavy fog over the water when, only a kilometer or two inland, the sun burned through haze and on my skin.

So, as temperatures soared past 33C (92F), I pedaled 145 kilometers, with some hills, and 120 kilometers (flat) on consecutive days.  During any of the past few summers, this might not have been normal.  But this is the first time I've ridden as much in two days since my crash and hospital stay.

Oh, and I got to sweat even more than I would have in any sauna or steam room.  And I enjoyed a refreshment no gym could have provided!  

Being Prepared, Before Uber

As a teenager, I learned bike repair and basic first aid because I wanted to be self-sufficient on the road. 

As a Scout (We were still “Boy Scouts” in those days!), I had to learn first aid to advance from one rank to another, if I recall correctly.  Also, I learned some first aid techniques and lore—some of which contradicted what Scout leaders taught us—in one of my high school Health/Phys Ed classes. 

On the other hand, when it came to bike repair, my education was home-made.  Most of what I learned came from the first edition of the late Tom Cuthbertson’s wonderful Anybody’s Bike Book.  If the “For Dummies” series of books existed in those days, ABB could have been part of it:  It began with the assumption that, before you opened the book, you didn’t know the difference between a flat-bladed and Philips screwdriver, let alone a Schraeder and Presta valve.  But Cuthbertson would not have allowed his book to be called Bike Repair For Dummies; he had too much respect for his readers to do that.

Anyway, I wanted to learn bike repair and first aid, among other things, because I wanted to get on my bike one day and pedal some place far away, never to be seen or heard from again by anyone who knew me.  That fantasy came, in part, from being an adolescent and taking some things I read—from The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn to A Doll’s House—as well as movies like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid--perhaps a bit too literally.  To be fair, I must say that I wasn’t suffering the fate of some Dickensian character.  Though I butted heads with my parents, teachers and other authority figures in my life, none were abusive.  However, I also knew that I couldn’t live any of the lives my parents and teachers, or any other adults in my life, envisioned for me, even if I didn’t quite know what sort of life I actually wanted to live.

You might say I wanted to run away.  I suppose I could have done that by joining the circus or the French Foreign Legion.  Believe it or not, I actually thought about giving myself over to the Legion one day when I passed by their recruitment office.  But getting on my bike and riding into the sunset, the fog or whatever else was on the horizon was more appealing. 

Even though I wanted to disappear, I didn’t want to get stranded someplace.  I wanted the power to move out, move away, move forward, move on — all on my own terms, in my own way.  I didn’t want to put myself at the mercy of anyone or anything else in an emergency.

That would mean, of course, having certain skills and tools when I was on my bike.  It would also mean carrying dimes (and, later, quarters, or whatever the local coinage was) for pay telephones—at least, for those places where there was a pay telephone!  By the time I took my first long bike tour, I had those things and some textbook knowledge of Spanish and French—and perhaps even less knowledge than I thought I had about a lot of other things!  But that is the topic of another blog post, perhaps another blog.

I am thinking about all of that now, after the bike ride I took today.  Every inch or centimeter of the route on this day’s ride was one I’d ridden numerous times before; my intent was simply to ride vigorously and enjoy myself on a gorgeous day.  And, yes, I planned on getting home:  After all, I have cats (and myself!) to feed.

I was descending the ramp of the Cross Bay-Veterans MemorialBridge (“the bridge to the Rockaways”) on the Beach Channel side.  I’d pedaled about 80 kilometers (50 miles) and had about another 25 (15) ahead of me. The wind blew at my back, so I expected to be home shortly.

There is a fairly sharp turn in the ramp on the Beach Channel side.  I have long since learned not to yield to the temptation of descending faster than Lindsey Vonn on the Super G at Val d’Isere; there isn’t much room if you have to dodge another cyclist—or, worse, a group of riders—coming in the opposite direction. Even a pedestrian, skater or dogwalker who’s “in the zone” and not paying attention to surroundings can lead to your being entangled. 

However, someone else hadn’t learned those lessons.  Or she simply lost control of her bike; from what I could see, she’d probably never before ridden so fast—or much at all.  When I saw her, she was flat on her back, crying in pain. 

Her boyfriend confirmed my suspicions.  He said she “couldn’t steer out” of the path of the retaining wall she crashed into.  She gasped, “It hurts to breathe”. I immediately suspected a fractured rib—or, judging from the scrapes and bruises on and around her left shoulder, a broken collarbone.  I also feared a possible concussion:  Neither she nor her boyfriend was wearing a helmet.  However, she said she didn’t feel dizzy and, after a few minutes, was able to stand up.  And, from what her boyfriend said, her shoulder, but not her head, hit that wall.

This is not the accident about which I've written today. 

I offered to help:  Call an ambulance, get ice from the bagel shop at the foot of the bridge, whatever else they needed.  “We’re OK,” he said.  I offered her my water bottle, which was about half full.  She drank from it. 

I then glanced at her bike.  The front wheel was a “pretzel”, but there didn’t appear to be any damage to the rest of the bike.  I opened up the front V-brake, which made it possible to move the bike, albeit with some difficulty.  I then apologized for not having a spoke wrench:  Although the wheel couldn’t be salvaged, I explained, at least it would make it easier to push the bike.    I also apologized for not having a wound dressing or other things the bagel shop probably wouldn’t have.  “Oh, don’t worry,” he said.  “We’re glad you stopped”.

They live about halfway between that bridge and my place. I asked if they had a way of getting home.  “We called a friend but he wasn’t home,” he explained.  “But don’t worry—we’ll just call Uber.”

Uber.  Nobody had even thought of such a service back when I was plotting my Great Bike Escape.  The only time I had seen the word “uber” was in one of those books I didn’t understand as well as I thought I did—or, more precisely, understood in the way only an adolescent, with no guidance, can understand it.  For all I know, that just might have been the way Nietzsche wanted it to be understood.

But I digress again.  I told the young man to be sure to remind the Uber-man (or woman) that he and his girlfriend have bikes.  Turns out, the Uber person was driving an SUV.  But he had no idea of where we were; he claimed his GPS couldn’t find it.

If he couldn’t find that, I don’t think any Uber driver—had such a person existed in my youth—could have found the places I thought I might ride to when I left home, my head full of the stuff I’d been taught and the bike repairs I’d learned on my own.  And, even if the driver could find them, he (who almost surely would have been male in those days) would not have wanted to go there, any more than many New York taxi drivers would want to take a big black man who wanted to go to Brownsville.

Finally, the young man called a local car service the girl at the bagel shop counter knew about.  They indeed had a van and said it would be “no problem” to go to the young couple’s apartment.

In some of the places where I’ve ridden, there aren’t car services.  Or bagel shops.  Or, for that matter, bike shops.  Perhaps I wasn’t as ready for them as I thought it was. But I survived and had fun, and I had a great bike ride today.

When You Can't Look Out

The past couple of mornings began with mist that turned to fog at the ocean.

I don't know whether this is what the Ramones had in mind when they sang about Rockaway Beach.  I like it, actually:  The shadowy figures on the jetty were as clear to me as a dream, and I felt myself opening like a leaf on a bush that would soon flower.

The weather and traffic reports warned of poor visibility.  But I had no trouble seeing.

Well, I could see clearly enough to know that Point Lookout would not live up to its name:  It wasn't possible to look out very far from there.

But I could still see clearly, the way we can on an invigorating ride. 

London: Life In The Bike Lane

Cities in the Western world have seen phenomenal increases in the number of cyclists on their streets during the past few years.  One of the cities in which the increase has been most noted is London.  According to one study, during the peak morning hours (7-10 pm), on some streets, as much as 64 percent of the traffic consists of bicycles.

In other words, at such times on those streets, there are almost two bicycles for every motorized vehicle or pedestrian!

The study also reveals--perhaps not surprisingly--a dramatic increase in the number of accidents, injuries and deaths among cyclists   Most interestingly, it notes that most accidents and casualties occur during daylight hours.

But it also shows increase spending on cycling infrastructure (which include plans for a bicycle "Skyway")--which, with greater public awareness, could reduce, or at least slow the increase in, the numbers.

Perhaps the most thought-provoking statistic of all, though, is this:  If just fourteen percent of all trips in Central London were on bicycles, emissions of nitrogen oxides--the most prominent vehicle pollutant--would fall by nearly a third.  

That is to say, when people ride bikes rather than drive in the central city, it has double the effect in reducing at least one major type of pollution:  no small matter in a city noted for its congestion and fog.

From Fiona Outdoors

Bike and Bed, or Bed and Bike

So why didn't I post yesterday?  Let's see...Should I be creative?  Or tell it straight?  Ha!  Me, doing anything straight.  What a concept!


Anyway...After my first longish ride of the year--which I did on my fixed gear--instead of taking a bubble bath or doing something sensible like that, I did some work.  And got about three hours of sleep.  No, I take that back:  That's how much time I was in bed.  And then I went to work.


So, when I got home last night, late, I went almost immediately to bed...and to sleep, even after having eaten a takeout dinner with way too much sodium and having drunk some tea.

I couldn't have slept any better-- not in my grandmother's arms, not in the plushest bed in Buckingham Palace, nor even in the Bed and Bike Inn--than I did last night.  I slept so deeply that the fog didn't have to come in on little cat's feet (This is probably the only time I will ever quote Carl Sandburg; Do you forgive me?).  It could have echoed in one of the horns of the boats in the harbor and I would have dreamt through it--and not remembered what I dreamt.


Nights like last night make me believe that nothing's better than cycling-induced sleep. 

Losing The War He Described: Andrew Tilin

Riders take to the road and take their chances.  There, they can encounter distracted, impatient or drunk drivers, lane-hogging SUVs, deteriorating pavement and traffic-clogged grids.  Multiple dangers exist from coast to coast.

So wrote Andrew Tilin in a 2014 issue of Outside magazine.  A frequent contributor to that magazine, Bicycling and other related publications.  A dedicated cyclist and amateur racer, he knew the hazards he described as well as anyone did.

Well, he became a victim of those very dangers.  On Saturday morning, he was riding in fog with the Gruppo VOP Cycling Club, based in Austin, Texas, when he got a flat tire.  He pulled to the side of the road to change a flat tire.  Meantime, a car skidded on the slick pavement and crashed into a truck, sending it careening into the side of the road--and Tilin.  He died soon after.

Andrew Tilin (center)

In addition to his columns, he is known in and out of the cycling community for what may have been our equivalent of Super Size Me.  Several years after Morgan Spurlock lived on McDonald's food and made a documentary of his resulting weight gain and other health issues, Tilin spent a year taking testosterone and wrote about how it affected his athletic performance and life in The Doper Next Door.

Members of Gruppo VOP are planning a memorial for him.

I Didn’t Listen

 During the pandemic, I have steadfastly followed the directives and advice from health authorities.  I’ve kept my vaccinations up to date and still practice social distancing as much as I can.

Today, however, I didn’t follow the advice of those who know better: I went for a bike ride.

Granted, it wasn’t a long or strenuous ride:  about 50 kilometers, by my reckoning, along waterfronts, back streets and industrial areas of Queens and Brooklyn.  It was flat but a fairly brisk wind blew—and I was riding my fixed gear.

The health authorities have advised against “strenuous” outdoor activity.  I don’t think my ride qualifies, although some authorities might disagree.

The reason for that bit of advice have to do with fires in Canada. And the wind here, and in much of eastern North America, has been blowing from the north.  As a result, this city is thick with smoke.

I don’t recall a fog so thick that it rendered the Manhattan skyline as barely-visible from Long Island City or Greenpoint as it is today.

Even the sun is no match for the ashen shroud in the sky.

Seeing a boat emerge from the enfumed vista made me wonder whether Charon was ferrying people from one realm to another.

Of course, today’s scene might be nothing more than this.

A Quick Break: A Ride

Yesterday I rode—on Tosca, my Mercian fixed gear— for the first time since my move.  It was a short trip, past the Garden and Zoo, but it felt good to do something not move- or work-related.

Although I’d previously done some cycling in this area, as Anniebikes says in her comment, there’s more to explore.  Even after 21 years of living in Astoria, I found new rides and variations on familiar ones.

My new apartment has nice views and is much lighter and airier than my old place.  I wonder:  Will the sun steaming in my window energize me to ride more?Will the fog creeping by lure me into winding down the bike lane by the gardens?